The Dangers of Assumptions
by Cvy22
Summary: Just another washed up corpse. Accidental Death. Dull. Sherlock had much more important crimes to be investigating.
1. Chapter 1 - One Foggy Day In London

One Foggy Day in London…...

The brooding grey clouds rolled across the sky and the waves rolled in on the shore along with the stiff breeze. It threatened to rain, but it always did in England so no one else took notice. A young woman pulled her legs in closer to her chest as she sat on the shore starring out at the tide. She buried her face into her long thick overcoat. Her face was cold and becoming dried from the breeze. Her nose and throat stung from the abuse of the onslaught, but she stayed, opting to make use of the blanket she was offered earlier.

She watched as 4 men stood over the still figure of a man in his mid to late-40s, laid out on a stretcher. He wasn't going to get any better.

They discussed and pointed all around them, trying to piece together the crime scene. Sophia Barnet sat just out earshot, and gratefully so. Honestly didn't want to think about HOW he died. She just couldn't grasp _**why**_ he had died. But perhaps to understand, they must go hand in hand. She had never seen a dead body, and couldn't say there was much to be missed. He had been adrift for the night and in that time_ things_ got to him. She couldn't look at his face. She kept her reddened eyes clamped shut, even with the fog, everything was so blinding, overwhelming. She only opened them to look around as an outburst shook the crowd of policemen. Some insults, some curses and one outraged man, a pale weasel-y guy, Anderson they called him, threw his hands in the air saying, "Oh, bollocks!" The man charged towards the lead investigator, ready for a fight as two more men approached the scene.

"We don't want to hear about how your night went Anderson, go over and play in the sand now will you?" "Oh for God's sake!" "Anderson! You know the drill!" shot the lead investigator. Anderson didn't give up his fight, he just continued it in the opposite direction, cussing and lamenting his fate while throwing his hands towards the heavens, perhaps in prayer of intervention from his accursed life.

"Must you call me on every case, Lestrade?" the taller of the two newcomers continued. "Come off it, it's not EVERY case Sherlock. And this case is special, I'd really appreciate any help you've got."

Sherlock approached the body sprawled across the beach. He starred, completely unfazed as he threw on his gloves. Sherlock noted his suit, a businessman. He checked the pockets, as had the police prior, but he thought to check the inner breast pocket of the mans suit, juvenile, and they missed it. He withdrew his hand, now clutching a few soaked napkins. Most of the mans belongings we're in baggies to the right of his corpse including his wallet and phone, Sherlock deposited this new evidence into a fresh baggie and gently maneuvered it around, looking for a name or label. John leant in for a better look as Sherlock revealed their clue. "'Ben-'….'Ben-' what? I can't make out the rest." "Neither can I." Sherlock sounded disappointed, but all the same he threw it next to the other evidence and evaluated what laid there. "Bennie's is a restaurant out on the Southwark." offered John. "Good thinking. What's the girls relationship?" The last part he shouted out, making it rather uncomfortable, considering she could hear.

"You're the genius, you tell us." Anderson came back for more, much to Sherlocks disdain as he would much rather him jump off the London Bridge. "No Anderson, how about we see your wonderful detecting skills at work?" Anderson got paler than usual and pursed his lips at being put on the spot. He had been there for her interview but he wasn't paying attention, it wasn't important anyway…

He approached her, ignoring the reproachful look she gave him, he was probably use to it by this stage in his life. He took a deep breath and tried his best.

"Her eyes are bloodshot. She's been crying so they must have been very close. She holds the blanket to her subconsciously to comfort herself. " Anderson motioned with his hands about his shoulders for effect. The crowd was watching now. He circled around her and continued to study. John came to squat beside her, ever the supporter and comforter of young pretty women, or perhaps he knew how weird she thought Anderson was.

"You doin' alright?" he asked softly and placed a gentle hand on her back.

"Yea….they gave me a blanket…'Shock blanket'….it's nice." she spoke in almost a whisper and gave a weak smile. John chuckled.

"She's his sister!" was the final conclusion from Anderson.

Sherlock pulled a face that any onlooker would diagnose as nausea. "Their age difference is some 15 years and you think they're related?" Sherlock's face was incredulous and he turned to Lestrade, "Do you pay him?"

There was a chuckle all around.

"Well, lets see you do it then!" Anderson perched his hands on his hips like an irate teenage girl. "We'll they're not related. That' s why I asked." Sherlock stood before her and thrust his hands in the pockets of his pea coat. His eyes were cold and sharp as he looked at her, _like this breeze,_ she thought and gave a small smirk at the comparison but otherwise left him to his evaluation of her.

He was silent for a long while before saying, "American businessmen here to evaluate the prospects of merging with Lerwick." Sophia Barnet's eyes widened and mouth went agape to which Sherlock took to mean he was correct. He smiled quite proudly at his success, there was some guessing involved but he proved to be correct.

Anderson made a disgruntled noise and strode off. "Now explain that one to me. I mean, I interviewed her so I knew but how did you get all that?" Sherlock's eyes flew back to the woman, still talking about her, not to her.

" If we are just evaluating her, separate from the victim and his American I.D. Card and passport, you can see that her face is dry and chapped and she has two thick jackets, probably more underneath but she's still cold. She's not used to this weather and neither is her body. She's not close to the victim, she's sick. That's why her eyes are red. Their age difference is too grate or too little for them to be able to relate on much of a level at all. So what could they be? Simple. Coworkers.

She is foreign, but from where? Well, judging by her clothing style and race, western, similar to Europe but no European weather. America. Middle to Southern region of the States."

Ms. Barnet offered some help to the mystery, "D.C."

It only helped to inflate Sherlock's pride. No sign of it was on his face but he swiveled to and fro to state his excitement, something few but John Watson noticed he regularly did.

"But she's not sick." John put in questioningly, while glancing for confirmation from the woman. Sherlock's eyes shot down to her again, almost begrudgingly, awaiting the answer. "No." "What then?" Sherlock was impatient, slightly frustrated John was right and not him, but considering he spent much of his life treating the sick, Sherlock assumed he might know one when he sees it and let the issue slide. "You have….a hangover?" John asked in a slightly tentative voice. "Yes." Sophia let loose the final bit of information, generally uncomfortable but impressed none the less.

"Well there it goes! These two went down to Bennie's for a late night toaster after a long meeting and Mr. Unlucky over here wandered off for a dip, landing him in his unfortunate state! Well! That took all of 5 minutes!" Sherlock exclaimed and turned on his heel and made towards home as swiftly as he could.

"But how did you know about Lerwick?" she asked and the rest of the crew grumbled in agreement. Sherlock turned back to face her, "Your partner. He has an underground stub going east in his wallet, along with a business card from the representative you two met with, yesterday morning I'm guessing. You must have flew in on Wednesday, least crowded day for flying." He trailed off softly but came back just as quickly. "Lerwick is also in the papers, big blow out with the President of the company. Got caught with some underage girl, and the investors are all pulling out, don't like the sentiment. They were hoping a merger would save the company. Big Business. Big enough to bring two American business people across the pond." With that Sherlock continued his flight towards the main road.

"But wait!" He didn't stop. "It wasn't an accident! He was killed!" At that his feet suddenly came to a stop in the sand.

* * *

_Please let me know what you guys think! I hope it becomes an interesting mystery and if you think you know 'who-done-it' try and guess! muahahahahah! :D I apologize in advance if my take on "British-ness " is off. I'm American but it can't be respectable unless Sherlock seems natural. I'll try my best to make everyone seem genuine. Let me know which way you think the story will go! I hope you enjoy!_


	2. Chapter 2 - New Arrangements Part 1

Friday, July 26, 2013

5:49 PM

Sherlock could equate the feeling to that of a hound's first sent of game. His limbs tingled with anticipation and he could practically feel the adrenaline beginning to pump through his veins.

A challenge.

One that no one else could see.

But no. That was because there was no crime. Foolish.

Denial. It is the first the five stages of grief based on the Kübler-Ross theorem.

But the woman was not close to the deceased. Why would she grieve someone she was not close to? Perhaps the shock of death? There were no signs of a murder. She was wrong. The feeling accompanied with this thought could again be compared again to the hound, but this time as he lost track of his prey.

Sherlock did not think the situation merited a response and he did not turn around to acknowledge her. He continued on towards the main road and John, after sending the woman an apologetic look, trekked after his comrade. He fell in step with his friend and they shared a moment of comfortable silence. At any given moment, even as he stalked the streets of London, Sherlock Holmes gave the impression that he was deep in thought. It was hard to know when to begin a conversation while he was in this state without disturbing him. Sometimes, if approached with sudden conversation, Sherlock's mind might jolt back to Earth, or he might ignore you completely. John would preface his conversations by clearing his throat very loudly or coming to stand directly in front of Sherlock and outright staring at him. John chose the first, then continued with ,"You know Sher, I think...I think from now on you should only accept paying jobs." The tone in which John said it made it seem like it was hard for him. John swallowed the lump beginning to form in his throat. The Doctors empathy was truly awe-inspiring. But he had yet to understand the true purpose of the hunt. Sherlock was not in it for the money, or even to help others. It always came down to the challenge of it all.

" Even if the person is very nice, or even begs….we just can't do it anymore. It's sad business," he sighed and ran his hands through his hair, " but we're having problems paying for the rent as it is. Honestly, we're lucky Mrs. Hudson is so generous." If he agreed or disagreed, he did not say but he did not argue and that was something..

"Anyway, if Lestrade had interviewed the girl and knew they had been out drinking, why would he bother calling you on the case?" Sherlock shot a glance at his friend, almost in disbelief. " Foreign Affairs. More 'red tape' than usual. He'll be under a lot of scrutiny."

They hailed a cab and hurried home.

Once Sherlock and John left the crime scene Lestrade lost all hope for some pristine ending to this scene. It was always easier for all involved when there was someone to blame, to be punished, and then everything can return to normal. There was nothing else to do but call it accidental death. He had to quickly shove away the cynical thought that would have preferred it to be a suicide, less paperwork.

"What's Bennie's?" The woman stood and began to untangle herself from the blanket. " 'Scuse me?", Lestrade was too caught up in dreading all of the phone calls he would have to make because of this. He turned towards Ms. Barnet and she continued, " Who was that?" "Sherlock Holmes. Look, I know your coworkers death comes as a surprise to you, but not all deaths are murders." To which he add offhandedly, "Despite what the news might tell you…... Sometimes accidents just happen. " Lestrade, not being one to comfort, awkwardly patted her on her shoulder. His mind was always alert to the many reasons he could be sued.

Sherlock and John Watson enjoyed the next two or three hours entertaining themselves in their flat. Sherlock sat on his favorite sofa, next to the wall he had so beautifully decorated with bullet holes and a cipher of his own. He was deeply lost in thought, considering the chemical differences in the cigarette ash of popular brands, of course. John however, spent his time trying to tidy up the apartment. Every now and then an audible word could be heard from him, usually some halfhearted complaint.

There was a soft knock on the door downstairs and Mrs. Hudson's hurried footsteps were heard.

John went back to attempting to clean the flat, though he was truly only moving the mess around. He assumed the visitor was one of Mrs. H's old lady friends who frequented, that is until he heard the footsteps coming up the creaky staircase and the nonchalant chatter.

A soft knock and Mrs. Hudson peeked her head inside gave a glance around, "Ooohhh…What have you done to my bloody apartment…" she said woefully. She opened the door fully and surveyed the current state of her investment, then, "Oh good, you're here Sherlock! You've got a customer!"

The detective, once adorned in a warm overcoat and scarf was now reverted to his natural state which included pajamas and a dingy robe. He sat up from the couch to glance into the doorframe where Sophia stood waiting. He gave a flat, "No." and flopped back on the couch.

"Sherlock!," came a shrill Mrs. Hudson, "But you haven't even listened to a word she's said!" "Uh..We were at the crime scene this morning, Mrs. H., Sherlock decided it was an accidental death." said John, "and if you don't mind me asking, what makes you think-" "No. Don't ask her." "SHERLOCK!" from Mrs. Hudson and an incredulous "Why?" from John, then "You know, even if it was an accident, you can still investigate it. Just to be sure!" Sherlock gave a snort and stood from the couch. He walked towards the woman, "Right then, Ms…what was your name? Nevermind, doesn't matter. How much money do you have?" "Sherlock, you're being so rude!" Sherlock threw Mrs. Hudson a look as shrill as her voice and her mouth slammed shut and she gave a pout and a huff. "Okay, how long have you been working?" John stood glancing between the woman and Sherlock, watching and wondering as this all unfolded. "Just under a year.." "Which means….?" "College debt." "You see, my flatmate here was just telling me that I cannot, under _any_ circumstances take on a non-paying job. So sorry…." Sherlock gave his best impression of a pitiful face and swung the door shut right in the woman's face.

"SHERLOCK!" and an echoing "SHERLOCK HOLMES!" resonated throughout the room.


End file.
